by Ian Rankin
‘There’s Salman bin Mahmoud,’ Clarke said, pointing. ‘And there’s Stewart Scoular.’
‘And your own Chief Constable,’ Meiklejohn countered. ‘An acquaintance of mine, you know.’
‘Meaning an investor?’
‘Is this going anywhere?’ Coleridge interrupted, checking her slim gold wristwatch.
‘This was the day of the incident, wasn’t it?’ Clarke was asking. ‘A man called Keith Grant came barging in … ’
‘Was it the same day?’ Meiklejohn sounded genuinely uncertain.
‘The same Keith Grant who was murdered in one of the huts at Camp 1033, on land you own, just a few days after Salman bin Mahmoud met his end.’
‘All of which I’m sure is very interesting,’ Coleridge broke in again, ‘but I think you’ve had quite enough of my client’s time.’ She closed her notebook with a flourish and began screwing the top back on her pen, having written precisely nothing.
‘Two projects,’ Clarke pressed on. ‘Two men connected to them end up dead, and suddenly you, Lord Strathy, are nowhere to be found.’
‘We’re walking,’ Patricia Coleridge said, nudging her client as she rose to her feet.
‘An officer from Inverness is on his way here with some further questions for Lord Strathy,’ Clarke told her.
‘Unless you’re arresting my client, Inspector, we’re leaving right now.’
‘If you’re scared, we can protect you,’ Fox announced, leaning across the table so he had Meiklejohn’s attention. ‘Is it Stewart Scoular – is that who you’re afraid of?’
‘No comment,’ Meiklejohn stuttered, beginning to pull himself up to standing.
‘Your daughter is in business with you, yes?’ Clarke asked, her tone hardening. ‘Funny she didn’t mention you visiting the victim’s home in London.’
‘No reason she should know.’ Meiklejohn had begun coughing, and as he stood up, he had to steady himself, hands gripping the back of his chair. But when he tried to move, his knees buckled, his face growing more crimson than ever, wincing in pain. Coleridge had pushed open the door.
‘Issy!’ she called. But Issy Meiklejohn was right there, her mouth open in shock as she saw her father. Clarke was already on the phone, summoning a paramedic.
‘There’s a defibrillator in the building,’ Fox was saying.
Lord Strathy was bent forward, hand to his chest, flanked by the two young women.
‘We need an ambulance!’ Issy yelped.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he told her, his free hand patting the back of hers. ‘Just need a bit of air.’
‘You’re going to the hospital,’ she said, her tone firm. Then, to Patricia Coleridge: ‘How could you let them do this, Patsy? How could you?’
The look Coleridge cast towards Clarke and Fox left them in no doubt that she would find a way to deflect the blame onto them if she possibly could.
Graham Sutherland had appeared in the doorway, other officers and support staff vying for a better view of the drama. When he locked eyes with Clarke, she managed nothing more than a lifting of one eyebrow. He’d told her once that he found it charming, though she rather doubted its power over him right this second.
30
When Creasey’s text arrived, she went downstairs to greet him. He had parked somewhere by Leith Links and was walking along Queen Charlotte Street towards her.
‘DI Clarke?’ he guessed, waving a hand.
‘How was the drive?’
‘About what you’d imagine.’ He was making to pass her and enter the police station, but froze when he saw the look on her face. ‘You let him go?’
‘He was rushed to hospital. Chest pains.’
‘Faking it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Shit.’ He angled his head heavenwards. ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’
‘Not especially.’
‘The interview was taped, though?’
‘Afraid not.’
He lowered his head to gaze at her. ‘Really?’
‘We were trying to keep it casual.’
‘How far is the hospital?’
‘They won’t let you see him.’
‘I need to try.’
‘You don’t want a coffee or anything first?’ Clarke watched as he shook his head. ‘We’ll take my car, then. You could probably do with a break.’
‘I could definitely do with a break – my hope was, Lord Strathy might be it … ’
Clarke texted Fox to let him know the score while she led Creasey to her Vauxhall Astra. They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Creasey leaning back into the headrest.
‘The A9 hasn’t improved then?’ she commented. ‘Still, must be nice to get away from John for a bit.’
Creasey snorted. ‘He’s a piece of work, as they say.’
‘Not many things I’ve not heard him called. Good detective, though; never gives a case a minute’s rest.’ She paused. ‘You think Samantha did it?’
‘Her or her lover – that would be the standard scenario.’
‘So those are your chief suspects?’
‘Everyone but John Rebus thinks so. He’s got half a dozen conspiracy theories lined up.’ He half turned in his seat so he was facing her. ‘Smoke and mirrors most likely.’
‘And yet here you are, DS Creasey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of John’s theories has brought you all the way to Edinburgh. He thinks you maybe lack imagination – your trip here tells me he’s wrong.’
‘You worked with him for a long time?’
‘Felt like.’
‘He doesn’t seem to be relishing retirement. I know his daughter’s freedom and good name are on the line, so he’s desperate – but I also sense he’s enjoying it, though maybe he wouldn’t see it that way.’
Clarke was reminded of the case files stacked up in Rebus’s new flat. She knew he was planning to break open the unsolveds. Something to keep me warm in my old age …
‘I think he feels he let Samantha down,’ she confided. ‘Not just once, but over and over.’
‘And now’s his chance to atone?’ Creasey chewed on this while staring at the passing parade of shops. ‘I should have asked – how’s your own case looking?’
‘Like you, we could use a break.’
‘They are two distinct cases?’
Clarke nodded. ‘With a few linked players. Your victim wasn’t making himself popular with Lord Strathy; Lord Strathy had business dealings with the bin Mahmoud family; my victim was best friends with Lord Strathy’s daughter. And so far no clear motive in either case.’
‘I told you I’ve got a motive.’
‘Jealousy? A love triangle? I don’t think you believe that.’
‘She’d visited her ex-lover the day her partner was killed. He found out and they argued.’
‘So they leave their daughter alone in the house and drive to the internment camp? Does that make sense to you?’
Instead of answering, Creasey leaned back into the headrest again and closed his eyes.
‘Not too much further,’ Clarke reassured him. Then: ‘We’re finding Lady Isabella a bit interesting. I think she has a head for business, though she hides it well. From what little I’ve seen of her father, he’s far from CEO material.’
‘He’s a figurehead, you mean? His daughter tucked away behind the curtain, pulling the strings?’
‘She’s close to Stewart Scoular – he’s the contractor who seems to sign up the investors.’
‘He’s also been a guest at Strathy Castle.’
Clarke glanced at him. ‘Yes, he has.’
‘I can do a Google photo search as well as the next person,’ Creasey explained.
Clarke’s attention was flitting between the windscreen an
d a new message on her phone.
‘Want me to read it out to you?’ Creasey asked.
‘Just an MIT colleague, wondering how long I’ll be.’
‘They’re missing you already?’
Clarke shook her head slowly. ‘Just pissed off I’m dodging the flak.’
‘You’re being blamed for Strathy’s collapse?’
‘In my absence, almost certainly.’
‘But you weren’t alone in the room with him?’
‘I was with another DI called Fox.’
‘The one whose identity Rebus stole?’
‘Yes.’
‘So this Fox guy will have your back?’
A wry smile just about broke across Clarke’s face as she signalled to take the exit into the grounds of the Royal Infirmary.
Having been told to wait in the A&E reception, Clarke fetched them a hot chocolate apiece.
‘About as nutritious as the machine gets,’ she apologised.
Creasey took an exploratory sip and winced. ‘Christ, that’s sweet.’
Clarke settled next to him on the row of hard plastic chairs. ‘So how are you finding our capital city so far?’
He managed a weak smile, but didn’t speak. A couple of minutes later, he was on his feet, pacing the waiting area. None of the patients paid him any heed, too busy with their own troubles. He didn’t look sick, which probably made him a concerned friend or relative. Clarke had been to this place many times before, could even put names to some of the green-uniformed paramedics. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening; on the surface, all was calm. But she knew that behind the scenes there could be trolleys filled with people waiting for beds to be freed up elsewhere in the hospital, forgotten about for the moment as some new and greater trauma took precedence. Creasey had his phone out, reading from the screen as he walked to and fro. Eventually he ran out of things to check, seating himself again and picking up the beaker of hot chocolate, studying the skin forming on its surface.
‘You’ll be late home,’ Clarke offered. ‘One thing about this job – it plays havoc with everything else. You live in Inverness?’
‘Culloden.’
‘Married?’
‘Not yet. You?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘My boyfriend says maybe next year.’
‘What does he do?’ Clarke asked.
‘He’s a GP.’
‘Two sets of unsociable hours to juggle.’ She was rewarded with another fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been dating another cop lately; not sure that’s going to work out.’
‘Things mostly do, though, don’t they?’
‘I suppose … ’ She broke off as Issy Meiklejohn came striding towards them from the guts of A&E. Clarke and Creasey both got to their feet.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Creasey,’ Creasey said by way of introduction. But Issy Meiklejohn’s ire was directed at Clarke.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘Not my idea,’ Clarke offered. ‘How is your father?’
‘Undergoing tests as we speak.’
‘I was hoping for a word,’ Creasey stated. At last he had Meiklejohn’s attention.
‘Why?’
‘I’m part of the team investigating the death of Keith Grant.’
‘What on earth has that got to do with my father?’
‘We’re talking to everyone who knew the deceased.’
‘In which case you’re wasting your time.’
‘Mr Grant was keen for your father to sell the land housing Camp 1033. I believe things became quite heated.’
‘My father made it perfectly clear that there would be no sale. The sum proposed was a pittance in any case. End of story.’
‘All the same … ’
Meiklejohn took a step closer, her forehead inches from Creasey’s. ‘End. Of. Story.’ Then, turning towards Clarke, ‘Our solicitor is preparing a complaint with reference to your conduct.’
‘Noted. And I really do hope your father’s okay.’
Meiklejohn’s face softened just a little, the tension leaving her jaw. ‘Thank you. There’s no immediate cause for alarm.’ Her eyes lingered on Clarke for a further moment before she turned and walked away. She’d got as far as the reception desk when she paused, seemingly lost in thought. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps.
‘A word in private, she said to Clarke, ‘if you please.’ She quickly ruled out both the waiting area and the outside world and headed to the women’s toilet instead. Clarke gave Creasey a shrug before following.
Behind the door stood two narrow cubicles and a single hand basin. Meiklejohn seemed satisfied that neither cubicle was being used. She rested her considerable frame against the door, barring entry to anyone else.
‘Can I trust you?’ she demanded.
‘That depends.’
‘Neither of these cases concerns my father. So if I were to reveal something to you, there’d be no need for you to share it with anyone else.’
‘The reason he’s been lying low?’
‘He’s frantic, you know. He feels that any association with a criminal case will not only tarnish his good name, but might also jeopardise his future business dealings. He wasn’t in hiding, not from your enquiries and not from anyone he feared.’
‘I’m listening … ’
Meiklejohn looked to the heavens – or at least the stained ceiling – for guidance. ‘This goes no further?’
‘Unless I judge it to be pertinent.’
‘All I want is for you to stop harassing my father.’
‘With respect, I don’t think that’s—’
‘He’s having an affair, all right?’ Meiklejohn blurted out. ‘A woman in London. She’s married. Her husband doesn’t know anything about it. All very clandestine.’
‘Yet he confided in you?’
‘He always has.’ She made it sound like a burden. ‘Anyway, past few days the woman’s husband was overseas. It was their first chance to spend some serious time together, so that’s what they did. Rented apartment, food delivered, drinks cabinet well stocked. It was only towards the end that he bothered checking the news and saw himself featured. Came to me straight away.’
‘Because you’re good at fixing things.’ It was statement rather than question. ‘The woman involved will back this up?’
‘I’m not giving you her name.’ Meiklejohn folded her arms.
‘Tough to let this go without corroboration, Issy.’
‘What if I ask her to contact you? Give me your number.’
Clarke recited it while Meiklejohn tapped it into her phone.
‘I’m trusting you, Inspector. Please don’t let me down.’ She turned to pull open the door.
‘While I’ve got you here … ’ Clarke said.
‘Yes?’
‘Keith Grant.’
‘What about him?’
‘The day he gatecrashed your father’s party … ’
‘Hugely embarrassing.’
‘It was a pitch to potential investors?’ Meiklejohn nodded. ‘Was that the only time you met him?’
‘I didn’t meet him per se. He just came stomping across the lawn towards us shouting about that bloody camp.’
‘Until ejected by Colin Belkin?’
Meiklejohn peered at her. ‘You’re awfully well informed.’
‘I like to be.’
‘My father told me afterwards who he was – I knew about the camp, of course, and the mad plans some people had for it.’ She offered a shrug.
‘Jess Hawkins was a bigger thorn in your father’s side?’
‘It’s a waiting game. Next year there’s a revaluation – hike the rent and the raggle-taggle gypsies will have to move on.’
‘Including your ex-stepmother.’
‘No
great loss to either my father or me.’
‘Well, it’s not as if he lacks for female company.’
‘That remark is beneath you, Ms Clarke.’
‘Detective Inspector Clarke, actually.’
‘Can I go?’
‘Answer me one thing first – Lord Strathy tells us he visited Mr bin Mahmoud in London only a few weeks prior to his death.’
‘Yes?’
‘So why did you lie?’
‘I didn’t,’ Meiklejohn bristled.
‘Neither he nor Salman mentioned it to you?’
‘Obviously not.’
‘Cooking something up between them without your knowledge?’
For a moment it looked as though Meiklejohn would give an answer, but with a cold smile she pulled open the door and made her exit. Clarke stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection without really seeing it. Then her phone buzzed with an incoming call: John Rebus.
‘Nothing much to report,’ she told him, pressing the phone to her ear. ‘Strathy was lawyered up, didn’t say much, then collapsed and is currently in A&E.’
‘Just another day at the office, eh? Did Creasey make it down in time?’
‘No. He’s here with me at the Infirmary.’
‘Strathy didn’t give you any plausible explanation for his vanishing act?’
‘He may have had his reasons – nothing to do with either case. I’m having his story checked.’
‘The story being … ?’
‘Need-to-know basis, John.’
‘Precisely why I’m asking.’
‘Maybe later, eh?’ She paused. ‘Creasey seems pretty good at what he does.’
‘She said, attempting to redirect the conversation.’
‘I can’t discuss it, not at the moment.’
‘Will Creasey get the chance to speak with Strathy?’
‘Probably not tonight. He’s undergoing tests with his daughter standing guard.’ Clarke had a sudden thought and yanked open the toilet door. No sign of Creasey in the reception area. Given his chance, he had taken it. ‘Got to go,’ she told Rebus, ending the call. Raised voices came from behind the partition to the rear of the reception desk. Clarke had just reached it when Creasey was escorted out by two orderlies, Issy Meiklejohn bringing up the loudly angry rear.